Ambulatory

There was a time when C was first born that I would have done anything to be at home with her. My mind on that front has never really been made up completely--it ebbs and flows as my love for my job shifts around--but I'm pleased with her life at daycare and the example I'm setting for her by doing my own thing, having a job, even if it is way more traditional than I'd like (remember I'm trying to breed some bohemian tendencies in her from the beginning!). With all the time I've been spending at home these days, I realize I would go stark raving mad if I stayed home with her full time, and it makes it that much easier to go back to work. Sure, I miss her like hell, but I'm reminded what a good situation this is for all of us. Nevertheless, I like being out in the world in the middle of the week day. Grannies in the left lane going 20 MPH, kids having meltdowns in the Trader Joe's parking lot, very little traffic. It's like a totally different universe.

I'm at home today with a ton of electrical leads sticking out of my head for an ambulatory EEG. I've wrapped a scarf around my head and like to think I'm looking a little like Little Steven of Underground Garage and E Street fame as I diligently record everything I do. I have guests on their way tonight who can't wait to get a look at my Medusa-like appearance, and I'm trying to resist the pull of back-to-back Law and Order so that my brain waves look extra-smart when they study them; in fact, I'm going to go start a crossword puzzle in a minute. I think there is little reason for this test besides getting me back on the road. Not being able to drive myself around is driving me crazy, especially because public transportation in and around Detroit is pretty shoddy.

It's ironic that the EEG is called ambulatory when, for me, it's anything but. Nate has been saddled with two extra responsibilities since all this happened: pick-up and drop-off for Clementine AND pick-up and drop-off for me, whether it's work or doctor's appointments. For some strange reason this has me feeling guilty; I tend to shoulder more of the logistics on a day-to-day basis, but it's hardly because he asks me to. I think I'm still struggling to come to terms with the way that we tend to fall into certain roles. I don't want to say it's gender--I think it's much more a control-freak tendency on my part than my inner homemaker--but I wish it were easier to nail down. My Donna Reed plan that was working so well for us for a while has totally fallen apart in the last few weeks, and I'm pretty happy with that. It felt good to know who was doing what, who was responsible, but it's more fun to share, to work together now that Clementine can almost lend a hand (we're not trusting her with a knife just yet, but she's really great at organizing the cherry tomatoes!).

It's time for one of my scheduled rest periods, so I'm going to go look as calm and restful as I can so they'll let me have my damn keys back.

Before trauma, fun

I can't let our great time up north be overshadowed by its unfortunate ending. Clementine is blending right in with our nomadic ways, and I think she was psyched to hit the road with Laura and Joey after her few days at work with me. We started by visiting a friend in Interlochen, where Clementine was able to realize her lifelong dream of encountering a real snowman. She has been obsessed with snowmen since their proliferation at Christmas and in one of her books, but seeing one--two, in fact, if you count the baby--in real life was almost just too much, especially since Joey built them.



This was also the first time Clementine got to play in the snow at any length, which she loved until she couldn't her boots on anymore. She especially loved throwing snowballs.



Joey and I hit Crystal Mountain before we headed up to Petoskey to meet the guys. We checked into a fabulous hotel that had very comfortable bed. The only evidence of my head trauma might just be that I have hardly any pictures of Clementine in the hotel or around the slopes at Nub's Nob except for some pics of her very cute pony tails. Holy hell is that girl is sweet.



On the way home we decided we couldn't possible pass up The World's Largest Crucifix in Indian River. My double vision was just getting started as we pulled up, so I didn't perhaps enjoy the oddness of it as much as I normally might have, but I did find the fabulous nun doll museum that was beyond strange. Hundreds of nun dolls in the garb of convents all over the world, strange dioramas of nuns in action, a hall of life-size nuns. Sadly, the gift shop was closed, but I have a feeling I'll be back.







For now, my cool little girl is just happy to be back. But we are maybe a little curious about the Sock Monkey Festival in Rockford, Illinois this weekend....

Double Vision: not just a cheesy Foreigner song

Last Sunday, as we were driving back from a fabulous weekend up north hanging out with some of our favorite people and snowboarding, my vision was a little off. At first I just felt funny, but as the day progressed, things went from blurry to split in two—totally in two. I was trying to keep up a brave front, catching up with phone calls, making plans for the week. But when we stopped for a bite to eat, I realized I could hardly walk and felt absolutely drunk (the kind of drunk where you have to close one eye to see). I nevertheless got myself to the bathroom to change Clementine’s leaky diaper (yuck) but realized we needed to get to the hospital to be sure I didn’t have brain damage.

I wasn’t really sure what had happened, but I got to tell the story so many times over the last week or so I can recite it by heart. On Friday I took a pretty serious tumble while snowboarding, smacked my head but bounced back immediately (I wear a helmet, after all). There were no signs of concussion beyond a little dizziness that night. We spent the next day hanging out, seeing sights, shopping. I was fine. We went out for some night skiing and had a great time for a while—Nate and I were on our own and really enjoying it. We wanted to hit every hill before we took a break to visit Clementine and Laura in the lodge, so we headed over to an easy hill on the far side of the slope. I remember strapping in and following Nate down and around a bend, but then the next thing I remember is waking up on my back much further down the hill. I don’t think I fell because it was very flat there, very gentle and easy and I had no snow on me, no aches and pains that might lead me to think something had happened. I got up slowly and headed down the hill dizzy and disoriented. Nate was waiting for me at the bottom and told me he had been there for five minutes and was beginning to get worried. Needless to say I cut the night short and went back to our hotel. I felt kind of dizzy but still very functional. My vision didn’t start to split until we were on our way home—I thought it was something mild or, at worst, a dramatic overreaction to the end of a fabulous vacation.

Once we reached Detroit, Nate and Clementine dropped me off at the ER at my insistence—the last thing I wanted was my girl hanging around the hospital again, and I was pretty sure I’d be fine or that Nate could find someone to watch her while the doctors patted me on the head and told me to take some Motrin and promise never to snowboard again. I wasn’t at the ER long, however, before a negative CAT scan got the doctor thinking I had a ruptured brain aneurysm—he prepared to do a spinal tap and I freaked out, called Nate who had taken refuge at the home of the people with whom we were traveling (as if they hadn’t had enough of me) and started cursing myself for not having a will. The spinal tap was as awful as it sounds—worse, actually, as there is not so much a tap as an invasive injection that involves the needle scraping along one’s vertebrae (I made quite a few jokes about the lengths I had gone to in order to avoid an epidural only to end up with something pretty similar, but the doctor had zero sense of humor). Without my asking, both Karen and Laura showed up to keep me company as we waited for results, more tests and some kind of news. I’d be embarrassed remembering all of the compromising situations in which they saw me (at one point I remember Karen holding my IV bag while I peed), but the good thing about head trauma is that the memory is the first to go.

Eventually they had no answers and it was almost midnight. They decided to admit me and schedule me for an angiogram in the morning, but I had to wait two hours to get a bed in the ICU step-down unit. Nate went to get some sleep at our friends’ house with Clementine, and I spent the hours until dawn drifting off to sleep and then waking myself up immediately anytime I saw any sort of light in my dreams. It sounds ridiculous, but I was trying not to go into the light. I called my dad at 5:30 AM because I just felt so lonely and scared, but by about 7 AM things started looking up. My vision was slowly improving, my head didn’t hurt too much and a wonderful nurse practitioner told me that other than the spinal tap I had no signs of aneurysm. The neurosurgeons agreed, so then the great witch hunt of what the hell had happened to me began in full. Tests, results, theories, disagreements and an endless parade of doctors ensued.

There are days and days of details that follow and they are all pretty much the same. I was frustrated because I couldn’t leave or see my daughter, doctors stopped by and ordered more tests, everyone had different answers. In the end it turns out that I am OK—probably just suffering from a severe concussion, the effects of which I may feel for 6 to 12 months. I’m still banned from driving, however, until I have this crazy test done later this week to look for seizures. They think that may have been what grounded me on my last snowboard run.

I am back at work today and feeling good, despite the headache. I’m trying hard not to dwell on all this. I will be back on the slopes again next year, I will be fine and I can’t wait to start my yoga again because man, my muscles are sore.

Thanks for all the emails and notes and comments and good wishes. Now let’s talk about something happy.

Helmets may not be punk rock...

...but mine sure did save my life. I was released from the hospital yesterday after three long days of tests, poking, prodding and wondering what the hell happened, and it appears everything is on the mend and there is no lasting damage. I'm NOT giving up snowboarding, and let me be clear: this is not an indication of how much I suck. I was rather awesome and ripped it up pretty well--I just caught a bad break (no pun there since nothing is really broken).

Looking at the computer for more than a few minutes gives me a pretty huge headache, especially since I had my eyes dilated AGAIN today for a never ending series of tests. But more on my experiences soon.

Take your daughter to work...and have a nervous breakdown

At home, Clementine can be very independent. She'll get involved in her kitchen or in reading herself a book or in arranging something (the kid may have a little OCD--I once occupied her for an hour by giving her a box of coins to put in her piggy bank piece by lovin' piece) and wouldn't even notice if I ran out for groceries. Not that I do. But I have thought to myself how easy it would be to work from home or have her with me at work when she plays so independently for hours at a time. That, of course, is a foolish statement born of naivety and silly hopes for the best.

We have no day care this week. Public schools are closed and Julie and her family go south for family vacation--it's one of only two weeks she takes off a year and she totally deserves them, so I never complain. At least not about her. I may have complained this time about how this interruption in normal day care has been all my problem to deal with, as if I don't have a husband with resources of his own, but that's a tired subject that has already been beaten to death in our house. Let's just leave it that I never complain...at least not much.

Since I am one of three dozen people in the free world that apparently had to work on Monday, I knew bringing Clementine with me would be pretty easy, especially since my friends Karen and Dave live in the boys' dormitory across the walk from my office (oh, the glamorous life). While I started the day forcing crayons in Clementine's hand and teaching her not to move around too much in the rolly office chairs lest she fall down and break another bone (my biggest fear is another trip to the ER and all the questions from the doctors), it wasn't long before Aunt K came and swept darling C away for a day of house or, as I like to call it, the best form of birth control there is for a newly married couple: a day with a toddler.

Yesterday was another story. I brought Clementine in with me but hired a sitter for part of the day to hang out at Karen and Dave's. Sitters are expensive, so I tried to be judicious about how long I used her, but I didn't factor in how she might be a little weirded out to sit at a stranger's house for a long day. I ended up having to make several trips over to reassure, coordinate meals, double check and assist. I let her leave during nap time thinking it would be easy to end my day with C in the office with me, but I hadn't anticipated my boss wanting to have a huge spontaneous meeting at 4:00. He was extraordinarily patient with me as I interrupted sentences to ask Clementine not to eat paper clips, rip apart the 60th sticky note pad, throw business cars or touch the thousands of dollars worth of video equipment or as she demanded to watch "Shoe" (a great old cartoon from the 40s), which I had left in Karen's living room. By the time it was all over, we were all exhausted and every last illusion I have at combining work and Clementine at this age is shattered.

Let me be clear: I don't put the blame on her at all. She is such an interesting, chatty, interactive little girl these days that I find myself frequently mired in some trite "Where did the time go?" musings. Seriously. Wasn't she just a baby? I just can't juggle her and the demands of a job at the same time if the ebb and flow doesn't align and make it so that I'm not neglecting one completely to engage with the other. Best not tread there for now, and that's cool with me.

I've solved the rest of the week's day care problems by taking the time off. My lovely friend Laura and I are headed up north today and the menfolk will join us tomorrow evening. There will be snowboarding, shopping, perhaps snowshoeing, an inn on a lake and other fabulousness that is so much better than work I can't even begin to describe it. AND I've got my camera back so I may even have photographic evidence of our journey. I think I heard Clementine sigh when I opened the box last night. Let the excessive picture-taking commence.

Books for snowy days

You're never too old for a snow day, and when we had ours last week I had a million ideas about what to do. Sledding, hot chocolate, a family of snow people.... All Clementine wanted to do was hang out in jammies and read, and that ended up being the best idea of all. Here are the books we hit hard then and every day. I've been meaning to post reading lists for a while because I strive to find books that are as entertaining to the reader as the audience (in other words, books that don't make me puke). Clementine has some damn good taste.

Punk Farm by Jarret J. Krosoczka

Definitely one of our all time favorites. It lets us practice animal sounds, talk about musical instruments and SING! Visit the website to download your copy of the song and you too might be Eee-Iii-Eee-Iii-Ooo-ing your way through the day.







The Wuggie Norple Story by Daniel M. Pinkwater; Tomie dePaola illustrator

This book was originally published in 1980 and was a favorite of mine and my sister’s while we were young. It is a book about Lunchbox Louie, a totally hippy whistle fixer whose wife is Bigfoot the Chipmunk and whose son is King Waffle. Louie buys them a cat, Wuggie Norple, who gets so ridiculously large, Louie brings home a menagerie of animals as a comparison. The animals include Exploding Poptart, Laughing Gas Alligator (not an alligator at all) and Papercup Mixmaster. It’s a riot to read, with lots of great repetition. Want to get it? Hope you’ve got $100 bucks or more to shell out for a paperback copy. The thing is out of print and impossible to get. My mom bought me a copy off aLibris.com for my baby shower because she is fabulous.


Honky-tonk Heroes and Hillbilly Angels: The Pioneers of Country and Western Music by Holly George Warren; Laura Levine illustrator
also by the same duo: Shake, Rattle and Roll: The Founders of Rock & Roll

When I first bought these, they were way more for me than Clementine—each featured musician or group has a folksy painting and a thorough history. Waaaay too many words for Clementine, but she’s fascinated by both books and likes to page through them and point out all their shoes and guitars. I usually just read the first paragraph or make up a quick story based on the pictures. When we get to the end, she always asks to read it again right away.

In The Night Kitchen by Maurice Sendak

I remember checking this out from the library when I was a little kid, mostly because I was fascinated by the fact that Mickey is NAKED at parts in the story. It’s hardly a detailed drawing, but for a curious young mind it was enough. Apparently, as I learned from my Google search just now, the book has been/is controversial and occasionally banned due to the nudity. That’s just silly. It’s a great book about a little boy who wanders into a nocturnal fantasy city which looks an awful lot like a basic cupboard from the 30s. C likes to read this over and over and over again, and I have no objections.

Anything at all by Mo Willems

We would be lost, lost, lost without Mo Willems. And while part of me wants to say his stuff is too precious, too cute, the fact is that Clementine can’t get enough of it and neither can we. I thought I had a big collection, but this guy is prolific—it would be hard to have an entire library. Our favorites include:

Time to Pee!

At first Clementine’s interest in this book was just curiosity, and then she took an extreme interest in what we adults do in the bathroom. She will be across the house downstairs and hear Nate in the bathroom and race as fast as she can to the door crying “Pee! Pee!” Yep. It happens in public too. But the book is having a very serious effect on her, as today she discovered the hand-me-down kid’s potty (is that a gross thing to have second-hand?) and insisted she use it. I thought I was just humoring her, but she really did take her pants off, sit down and pee. I’m not letting it get to my head, but you know I’m gonna brag a lot if my kid learned to pee at 17 months old from a book.

Don't Let The Pigeon Drive The Bus!

Enjoyable and educational…if you consider learning to say “No No!” over and over again in response to various questions educational. The reader is instructed by the bus driver not to let the pigeon drive the bus in his absence. Of course the pigeon puts on the pressure and the charm, much to the delight of Clementine, who is all too happy to enforce the rules. She now refers to all trucks and buses as No No, to which I respond yes, that’s a bus. Everyone around us is always baffled.


Don't Let The Pigeon Stay Up Late!

Similar premise to the bus story. She gets to say no over and over again as the pigeon begs to stay up late and refuses to admit he’s tired. Clementine doesn’t yet understand this as a lesson in irony.

Leonardo The Terrible Monster

Not my favorite story, but Clementine loves it. Maybe because she has a friend named Sam, same as the boy in the book. Maybe because she gets to make all sorts of silly noises like Blaggle and Roar along with Leonardo.


Pumkinhead by Eric Rohmann

An odd tale about a boy whose head is a pumpkin that is snatched away by a bat and begins a journey than ends happily. Very beautiful illustrations and just off-beat enough that I love to read it.




Alphabet Poem by Michael Rosen; Herve Tullet illustrator

This book is perhaps the most heavily rotated right now—we even have an upstairs copy and a downstairs copy. It’s your basic ABC book, but you won’t find no A is for Alligator, D is for Drum here. Instead, it’s Computers Cooking Cakes, Noses Need Nets, Fish Find Fans and, Clementine’s favorite, Teddies Tap. She insists we all tap our feet and say “Dapa Dapa,” which is also how she asks for the book…morning, noon and night. Seriously. At 3 AM the other night I heard her saying “Dapa Dapa” to herself.


Bad Cat by Tracy-Lee McGuinness-Kelly

Another big favorite for all of us, Bad Cat wanders through the Big Stinky causing all sorts of trouble…that is, until you look closer. It turns out that people may just be misjudging poor old Bad Cat. Pictures are amazing, and even when we’ve read the text 20 times in a row I can distract C by asking her to point out all kinds of cool details. Not surprisingly she likes the tattoo on the sailor most of all.





Clementine in the City by Jessie Hartland

We like to give this book as a gift because…well…it’s about a dog named Clementine (which, incidentally, C still hasn’t tried to say). The name isn’t the only draw—Clementine is a poodle who goes to the big city to have adventures. She also buys shoes, which is my little Imelda’s favorite thing about most books. Shoes, shoes, shoes.


That’s Disgusting by Francesco Pittau; Bernadette Gervais illustrator
also by the duo: That's Dangerous, That's Mean and Elephant Elephant, a Book of Opposites

These books aren’t for everyone, but they sure are fun. We like That’s Disgusting best of all, but That’s Mean will probably be great if Clementine ever has siblings. A lot of my non-parent friends really like the scatological inappropriateness of That’s Disgusting because they’re happy to know all kids books aren’t just talking rabbits and horses. The book is a sing-songy list of things that are gross, each followed by the refrain “That’s Disgusting.” Topics range from sticking your finger in the cat’s behind to pooping in the bathtub to blowing your nose in the curtains. They’re all disgusting. Elephant Elephant is a fun, usual book of opposites that Clementine probably won’t understand for a few years now. Each spread in the book has two elephants that represent opposites. Some are pretty straightforward, like big and small; others are interesting/off like inside and outside (one elephant is exposed beneath the skin) and boy and girl (no genitals—it’s all about where the pee comes out).

Frida by Jonah Winter; Ana Juan illustrator

There are lots of draws to this book. Beneath the dust jacket (we pull those off immediately lest they get ripped into a thousand little pieces to be distributed throughout the house by both Clementine AND cat), there are lots of interesting faces that we have created different sounds for—this is how C asks for the book: “Oooo! Oooo! Ah!” while pointing to it. Inside, the illustrations are amazing and very much influenced by Frida Kahlo’s work. C is less interested in the story than the pictures, most especially the skeleton, which makes her dance.

This really is just scratching the surface. Let’s do this again sometime, huh? Also, what are your favorites? I have a list of book I covet…add to it, will you?

Valentine's Day: the new Christmas?

I'm not gonna hate on V-Day even though Nate and I really don't celebrate it apart from hand-made cards. And I'm not gonna be all predictable and decry the media-induced frenzy, the Hallmark guilt machine, the ridiculous expectations that lead to long lines of men shifting their weight back and forth in the line at the flower shop and throngs of women feeling short-changed or, worse, lame because there is no one to call them Valentine. Nope. I'm far too excited for the first hand-made card darling C brings home from school for us, the first chance we have to surprise her with a little Valentine of our own. Celebrating holidays as parents is all about making it our own, starting our own traditions, doing it our way, so I'm just not gonna bitch about how you all do it.

But.

I got lots of strange mail that made me feel like I was reliving another recent holiday. Is Valentine's Day the new Christmas? Three bits of evidence to support:

1. A card with a long, newsy hand-written note from my stepmother's sister-in-law (how do you get further removed than that?). It mentioned my Christmas card, so I imagine she's feeling guilty that I sent her one but didn't receive one in return (at least I think I didn't--I SO don't keep track). My sister got one too but hers came with pictures. It was a lovely sentiment, but it hardly screamed VALENTINE! Be Mine! It just didn't jive with the holiday...at least not what I think of as the holiday.

2. A Christmas letter (or a Valentine's letter?!) which detailed a family friend's year in review, including updates on their travels, medical histories, children's lives and the chorus of "We're going to be grandparents!" Again, lovely, I'm glad to be included--I love gossip and talk about hip replacements as much as anyone and am happy to see such talk liberated from the Christmas season. But for Valentine's Day?

3. An actual Christmas card with no explanation whatsoever. Hardly a signature beyond "Warm wishes." Dude, I'm a mom so I get it that the post office sometimes seems like a luxury vacation destination you can never quite get to. I sent most of my Christmas cards on December 21st and just knew people would understand. But February? It would actually be kind of funny, one of the stories you tell other moms and get in return a knowing nod IF there had been any kind of explanation on the card. "A little late this year but just as sincere!" "Hope your holidays were good--our were obviously hectic!" "You think you're confused? You should see our kids under the tree as I write this!" But there was nothing. I checked the postmark to see if maybe it had been lost, misplaced. I checked the envelope for a note about how she found the card under her front seat just the other day and thought she'd mail it anyway. Nothing. Could it be the guilt factor again? Am I just so low on the list that I'm lucky I get one at all?

Maybe Valentine's Day is the slacker Christmas. In a way it makes sense that a holiday dedicated to exchanging cards would be the time you send out your family photos, your Merry Medical family updates, your letters. Hell, it would make those weeks I'm wheeling around the crazy malls just a little bit less hectic and god knows there's nothing on TV worth a shit at the end of January--a perfect time to address the envelopes.

Now I'm just wondering what St. Patty's day will bring.

Cast party

Today, after five weeks of life in a cast, five weeks of watching her struggle to get food in her mouth with her right hand, five weeks of baths with one arm wrapped in Saran Wrap, of banging her cast on the dining room table in order to make her dad mad, of smacking herself in the head accidentally and waking herself up all night long, Clementine had her cast removed. In typical working mama fashion, I was late and harried (I left my lights on and had to get my car jumped), but I did manage to grab the work camera for some shots of the cast party:




And although C spent five weeks picking at the cast and asking that we get it off her, when the time finally came, she had this to say about it: "No! Da-too! Mine."



Her one bone (the ulna, I think) remains angulated, which isn't a problem for young bones and will probably straighten out as she grown, but it is a bit noticeable. Her skin is dry and flaky, but she sure is happy to have both arms back again.

Despite her early protestations (she spent the ride to the doctor's office telling me "Doctor bye-bye!"), this trip saw fewer tears and anxiety than before, and she even seemed interested in what was going on with her arm. We've turned a corner on doctor fear! And that's good, since I will be returning to the doctor on Thursday for my own set of X-rays. Like daughter, like mother?

Bad luck be gone

Our little family of three just can’t seem to get a break these days: colds, flu, pink eye, broken limbs, a sprained ankle (Nate’s latest contribution to our health crisis). I was calling it the hat trick of motherhood for a while, then the triple threat, but now I’m starting to run out of my pitiful sense of humor. Clementine is backsliding on her sleep habits, and although I was sympathetic at the height of her illness, now she just seems willful and even a little spiteful. She screamed “Mama!” for more than an hour last night, no matter what I did to calm her, so I just left her in her room until she eventually fell asleep. When I went up to check on her, she was practically still sitting up: her legs were crossed and she had piled blankie in her lap to rest her head on it. Of course this wasn’t going to last all night, so I wasn’t surprised to hear her at 3. I went in and quickly comforted her, but she was up again at 3:45. I let her yell her Mamas for 45 minutes before I just gave up and went in. Know what I found? She was standing up in bed the whole time! Just standing there, not falling asleep, not getting tired. I thought I was going to have a mental breakdown. Instead I took her into our bed (my bed, really, since Nate and his injury were parked downstairs on the couch), where she relegated me to one small corner. I must have been one bad ass in another life because I’m paying back my karmic demerits in triple lately.

I’m not letting this become part of the February blues, though—we are determined to get some joy out of Detroit’s annual Winterblast downtown this weekend, even if it is brief, even if we’re helping Nate hobble around on his one good leg, even if the snot that has been running out of my nose for the last few days freezes on my face. We WILL have fun, dammit.

And I will return to my poor, neglected blog this weekend as well. I have stories to tell of the politics of pick-up and drop-off (Nate experienced the strangeness of this ritual the other day, so I have proof), and perhaps we will once again have a digital camera on hand so you can see how much cuter Clementine has gotten with all this illness and lack of sleep.

Sick. So sick.

We have not been swallowed by a giant black hole, but at this point that's seeming like something I'd rather be doing. We are the house of sick and have been nursing various fevers, sniffles, infections and the likes since Saturday. I'm back at work today but wish I wasn't. The joy of falling into this pit of germs is that between the three of us we may never escape, each of us bringing home germs from school or day care or work and passing them back and forth like an illicit smoke. Nate got a little better from her bronchitis, but then C went down with the flu and ear infection. She turned a corner, but then I got sidelined with my annual winter cold. We're not sleeping. We're cranky. Oh, and we're using lots and lots and lots and lots of Kleenex.

On my mind: snowboarding and babysitting

Honestly, skip this post if you are unprepared for rambling irrelevance. I apparently needed to exercise some demons today. Oh, and find a friggin' babysitter.

It would be a total lie to say that I took to snowboarding as easily as I thought I would. I knew it would be hard and that I would fall, but I imagined by the end of the day I’d be pretty proficient, able to at least handle the small hills without many wipeouts. And I might have been had it not been for the thousands of pint-sized skiers and shredders who hit the hill Sunday afternoon and totally freaked me out by either going really fast around me, really slow in front of me or by wiping out as many times as I did and lying in the snow dramatically after each fall, a little hazardous slalom course, the likes of which I certainly wasn’t ready to handle.

But all in all it was as fun as I thought and I did eventually feel like I got the hang of it. Had I not been so worried about taking the children out and having to face off against their eager parents watching from the bottom of the tow rope (and by worried I mean if I hadn’t thrown myself eagerly into the powder every time I saw anyone in front of me in order to avoid collision), I’m pretty sure I would have spent a little more time upright. I can’t even talk about Nate, who looks like he was born on a snowboard after only two times out. He was up on the chair lifts and down parts of the hill I didn’t even get near enough to look at, but he was also patient and supportive of me wiping out on the seedling hill through the best of the morning. This is huge for me: I usually HATE when he’s better at something than I am and can’t stand to have him instruct me, but this time it really worked for us and I didn’t call him condescending once.

The full injury count is hard to assess at this time because I stupidly went to an insanely tough conditioning class at the gym on Monday, so I’m not sure if the sore muscles are due entirely to one of the other. But I did knock over Cameron, my faithful and wonderful 18-year-old teacher who wondered several times if I was deaf or just unable to follow instruction. I hit my head a lot (next time a helmet for sure), overworked my legs, bruised my knees, knocked my shoulder hard and overworked my quads, and Nate either pulled a muscle or worsened a very small hernia he has had most his life. Who the heck cares? I can’t wait to back on Thursday night. I watched the X Games for inspiration and find myself standing in my snowboard stance while doing dishes or just hanging out, and I’ve been dreaming about weaving down the hills—toe - heel, toe - heel—the last few nights.

Nate and I were lucky on Sunday to be able to go boarding together because Laura (pronounced Yo-ra by darling C) was kind enough to offer to spend the whole morning with Clementine, a morning which must have been a hell of a lot of fun because C now asks for Yora morning, noon and night. Having Laura and her clan so close and so involved in our lives is a saving grace—they are the closest thing to family we have in Detroit, and that is something I’m really missing as my life with a kid gets more and more back to normal. It’s not just that I miss hanging out with my family…although I really do…it’s that I’m finding it hard to find a sitter for those still-rare nights (or days) that Nate and I actually want to leave the house together. Alone. Just the two of us. No Clementine.

I do work in a high school, so it’s not like there is a shortage of kids around. And it’s not like I’m still the neurotic new mother who won’t leave her kid with anyone. Sure, I would like to leave C with someone she knows or can come to know (we’ve had a few one-hit wonders), but the real problem is the extra expense of a sitter. It’s hard to justify a $20 movie night that ultimately costs $40 and is replete with constant cell phone checking, the possibility of interruption and the nagging sense that we’re on a schedule, that we MUST be back when we say we will. I have Laura, but anyone who has someone like that in her life will tell you it’s a careful balance—you never want to take advantage, to overuse that go-to person to the point of fatigue. I feel like I need to protect Laura for the important stuff, the big stuff, not just the dinners out and little errands. I know she’d balk and say whenever, whatever, but I just can’t abuse that.

The real issue, I think, is that when I’m looking for a sitter I feel the same pit-of-the-stomach dread I felt when I was in a doctor’s office recently and read some common-sense article about how all parents should have a will in case of disaster and an emergency bank account with 6 months of expenses in it. Holy shit, I thought, we are totally unprepared for anything out of the ordinary—job loss, death, anything.. And although not being able to find a sitter so we can go out Friday night is hardly on par with this, it does make me feel totally vulnerable, at the whims of another person, a little bit out of control. It’s hard for me to ask for help—I’m always worried I’m inconveniencing someone or asking too much—and even when I do ask, it’s hard for me to trust that it will all work out in the end. Hiring someone is easier than asking a friend to help out, but even that isn’t foolproof. How many times as a teenager did I flake out on a job? Karma is a bitch, baby.

Let me remove my wrist from my forehead a minute: I do realize the sitter conundrum isn’t dire. I realize that if we did run into some emergency, something unexpected, the people we know are awesome. I have no doubt that we’d be covered in the face of a catastrophe. But what about when we had theater tickets (with Laura) and our babysitter backed out that morning? Who do you call then without feeling like you’ve abandoned your kid with the first warm body you can find? More importantly, how do you justify leaving your kid with a series of strangers all the time? And how do you ask your friends with kids of their own or busy lives to rearrange everything so you can go out and be footloose? All of our friends around here who have kids also have grandparents and families that sit for them, so it’s not like we can trade a night for a night. Our friends who don’t have kids are either too busy or just not interested in kids and would be totally traumatized by a night alone with my picky, lovely little girl. If we lived in a neighborhood that wasn’t the white trash hole ours is, I imagine I could have some sort of bohemian co-parenting arrangement with the great family down the street or next door, an open door kind of thing that made life a constant sleepover, an easy give and take. These utopias surely exist somewhere, right?

This would be so much easier if we lived near our families (even though they are scattered all over). I’d feel so much more relaxed, so pleased knowing she was hanging out with her grandparents, her cousins, her aunts and uncles. Even if we didn’t do it a lot, it would be so nice to know that the option was there in case we ever did get a whim. Nate and I are doing a tremendous job dividing labor and splitting the work up—I get out as often as I like while he stays home with C (and vice-versa, though he is such a hermit I have to force him out). The problem with all this splitting and dividing is that we’re doing very little together these days beside pass out on the couch after a long day and let insipid TV shows decay our brain and once lively conversation. Of course there are no easy solutions—my sister lives close to my mom and has more than once admired my life as a pioneer in family-free lands. I guess I should just quit my bitching and get back to the constant phone calls in search of SOMEONE to sit.

Again, sorry for rambling.

What's a weekend without a medical emergency?

I wish doctors offered frequent flyer miles or a rewards system because we sure have had to see a lot of them in the last few weeks. Yes, the arm fracture and subsequent dozen trips to the doctor but also Nate's asthmatic bronchitis and this weekend's pink eye, courtesy, of course, of day care. Clementine woke up Saturday morning with her eye sealed shut with junk, so we hightailed it to the urgent care office, got some drugs and put her under quarantine for the rest of the weekend. She's actually here with me at work for the day, behaving beautifully because I've plugged her into the beloved "Mah Na Mah Na" and her Aunt K has been spoiling her with cake.

But there is much to tell of our weekend snowboarding adventures (you won't be reading it on my corporate sponsor's website just yet). After work. After the laundry. After, after, after.

In training for life as an exotic dancer

My sister and I joke about our kids' dance moves sometimes. Whether it's Clementine cozying up to the pole lamp in our bedroom, Nora doing some bump and grind on the floor or Abby in her flamboyant costumes doing her best rendition of the dance in Little Miss Sunshine (yes, I have seen a movie released since Brokeback Mountain--one single movie to which I will refer whenever appropriate), they all have what it takes to be exotic dancers and love to flaunt it. We choose to view it as cute and funny at this point but reserve the right to become total hypocrites when this behavior continues in, say, middle school. Parenting is all about boundaries, you know?

Clementine is upping the ante on her exotic dancer training a little lately in her Muppet-obsessed frenzy. [Aside that may just be repetition, but I'm constantly trying to justify: it's true that I have lightened my stance on TV and don't feel any shame. We bought her the first season of the Muppets on DVD, and while they have indeed afforded me some quiet moments to be more than three feet from my daughter, they have also proved all my suspicions about TV to be pretty dead-on. Now that she knows what's in the magic box, she wants it on ALL the time and wanders around calling "Ma Nah Ma Nah" and "Da-too" for the Muppets, she slaps her kneee for "Drummer Hoff," and she creis "Shoe, shoe!" for this great 40s cartoon called "The Kids in the Shoe." It's like crack--now that she's had a little, she wants more and more.] She calls out for the number "Lydia the Tattooed Lady," and then stands in front of the TV trying to writhe around like the bikini-clad stuffed pig. It's pretty cute, but it also involves sticking her butt way out toward the audience and bumping it around a lot, which Clementine follows by turning around and lifting up her shirt. I suppose this is so we can admire her tattoos, but of course she isn't Lydia and can't jiggle just so to get Andrew Jackson to climb up the hill of her stomach.



I can't capture her best moves on camera, so I'll need to grab some video because I think this kid has the stuff, which of course has me and Nate totally relieved--as a successful exotic dancer, darling C won't need us to put her through college and we don't have to worry if we don't put a penny away for retirement. Our little Gypsy Rose will support us.

In other news, she alternately loves and hates her barettes. Since she is nothing but an extremist these days, love means she absolutely, positively cannot go another minute without having it in her hair RIGHT NOW, I don't care if you are changing my diaper and have poop on your hand because I'm turning over and pointing at that damn barette NOW NOW NOW! And hate means get it the fuck out of my hair now or I will rip ever strand of my hair from my head angrily and throw it on the floor in front of me and why aren't you listening to me I'm gong to start screaming....AHHHHHH! Here she is somewhere in between, either on her way to hate or just getting back from love:



And still other news: only Nate got to realize his dreams of snowboarding last night because I couldn't get a sitter. I'll hopefully get my chance on Sunday and will probably be so busy nursing my sore ass OR fielding offers from thousands of would-be sponsors that I won't be able to blog about it. Luckily my manager is on the case, prepping my gear and planning for a life following her famous parents around:



I think I'm slappy because it's Friday. One last thing. Clementine wants to give you something because she just loves you all so much:

Back in blue

I have returned from Texas, a state which is very proud of its Texas-ness. Everywhere I looked there were state flags, single stars, references to the "Lone Star," and lots of other reminders of where in the world I was. I don't say this in a pejorative sense at all--it is just fascinating and for me, a true Yankee, kind of daunting because I don't know exactly what Texas stands for and so I don't know what it means to be so surrounded by it. In my ignorance I think of Texas as a red state, home of Bush, a state with big, silly fence to keep Mexicans out, a state about which I'm honestly not very curious. Nevertheless, when I was able to get over myself and quiet my suspicions that everyone was going to find out I was a Yankee and chase me to the city gates with flaming brooms, I had a good time exploring San Antonio (which many people call "San Antone," and I don't know if it's a Johnny Cash reference or what). We saw the Alamo, which isn't nearly as big or impressive as you think it will be but is still worth the visit both for the beautiful grounds (home to the biggest, most beautiful oak tree I've ever seen) and for the cute retired guys in red jackets who staff it and are eager to leap on each and every tourist and explain the significance of the handle of a single sword, the dust from the walls, the trajectory of the sunlight across the floor, whatever. They were so serious I was afraid to ask about the basement and instead listened to a ridiculously long explanation of the taking of the Alamo.

Tacky souvenir shopping is always really high on my list whenever I'm away, and I like the idea of bringing something home for darling C when I'm away. I was pretty close to buying a mounted jackalope (made from a real rabbit) because it was truly, truly tacky, but it was stupid expensive and the fake stuffed one seemed so much more appropriate (did I ever think I'd use a word like that?@!). I also got her a creepy Mexican puppet she and the cat love to fight over, and a few other tacky knick knacks I got along the Riverwalk before heading to some very chic restaurant for the conference dinner. It was strange to sit on the low banquettes in the dim lighting, sipping some ultra-cool cocktail while screaming to be heard over the pulsing electronica--it was like revisiting another life. But soon enough the women migrated to one table, and we all started talking about our kids because it is just SO much easier than trying to find some other common ground with such temporary acquaintances. As mortifying as it is to admit, I took the first bus back to the spa after dinner and left the carousing to everyone else--even though I was the youngest person in the whole group. Lame, yes, but I had a full night's sleep in a comfortable bed to claim.

It was otherwise an uneventful trip except that I got to spend a lot of time by myself (such a luxury), thinking about what my next step might be career-wise. I totally fell into this job some years ago, and while it does afford me some flexibility and even a little power, it interests me less and less as time marches on. Part of it is my amazing boss leaving last June and part of it is the growing realization that I won't be able to keep calling myself a poet much longer if I don't get out there and do something about it. I miss literature. I miss language. I think it's time to get back to teaching. Duh! some of you are thinking. It's true I came to that conclusion this same time last year and allowed them to convince me to stay in my current job, but I can't get jazzed about it anymore. And I have to stop whining.

We're going on the first whole week of Clementine's life I haven't had a camera in her face at least once, and it's not all that bad. I did miss her first trip in the sled, some general cuteness as she has started loving looking at picture albums to recite everyone's name and lots of great candids, but I think we'll all survive. Hopefully my damaged goods will be fixed and returned soon, though, because there are some triumphant moments on the horizon: Clementine will have her cast removed in three weeks AND her father and I are going to learn to become world-class snowboarders. It's true we haven't skied since high school and have only practiced snowboarding in our minds and living room, but I'm fairly certain it's my sport.

From the road: my first working mama business trip

This time last year it was unfathomable to me that I would ever be ready for a business trip that took me away from darling C for more than a night at the very most. File that under What the fuck did I know? I’m in San Antonio for a business conference at a spa that has beautiful grounds, tons of amenities and the most comfortable beds EVER—they could sleep six without touching and are like sleeping on clouds. Last night I went to bed calm and relaxed and didn’t wake up until the morning. I wasn’t even listening for my name from the depths of dreams.

I did, of course, have pangs of longing when Nate wrote me an email about how she’s asking for “Mama” every ten minutes and then saying “yeah” in her honey-sweet voice when he reminds her that I’m working. But I think I’ll survive. We’re home tomorrow night, and I’ll be there first thing when she wakes up Sunday morning.

The conference itself is a butt crusher, and hanging with my boss lacks a certain element of fun and excitement as far as travel, but how can I complain? I got to see some old friends and their new baby, I’ve had lots of margaritas, I’ve done yoga in the sagebrush and I’m off to see the Alamo! I wonder if they’ll let me see the basement (and if you don’t get that reference, you might need to consult Conky 2000).

Cast art

Since Clementine is obsessed with tattoos, which she pronounces "dat-too," constantly scanning the bodies of everyone she meets looking for them: dattoo? dattoo?, I knew she'd be psyched to get her own ink, albeit not nearly as permanent as mine. We started with a few pieces but are now trying to get our friends involved by carrying Sharpies around in the diaper bag. So far we've only gotten flames, though a dinner date tonight Laura ("Lola" to darling C) might fill it out a bit more.

It has gone from totally white:

to some bits and pieces from her mama and dad:

to flamingly fabulous:

She likes showing it off, but she also gets a big kick out of wearing her BabyLegs on her arms:


We visited the doctor yesterday and had to endure a whole new round of X-rays, this time without me even in the room. Needless to say, she screamed and yelled the whole time but was pleased to learn that this lovely type of behavior earned her stickers and an endless supply of lollipops, which her mean-ass mom confiscated after our first and last lollipop experience which had her sticky from head to toe. We learned that her bone is "angulated" a bit. In the ER they saw it and thought they would have to sedate her to straighten it out (IV and drugs...no thanks). This guy yesterday thought they could use a wedge in her cast or some manipulation in the office and the resetting the cast, both of which sound infinitely better than drugging her, though I'm sure it will do NOTHING to allay her increasing fear of doctors. Sadly, her pronunciation has improved and she's no longer calling them "cocktors" like in the ER, even though the guy yesterday was kind of an ass. He had the bedside manner of a jellyfish and reacted really poorly to her objections when he abruptly walked into the office and grabbed at her arm with nary a greeting. He also tried to give her a sling, although the smallest they had was for a 4-year-old and it's not like she's going to keep it on. Maybe I'll fashion one out of an old necktie or something...

All of this and she refuses to slow down even a second. She's still very busy in her kitchen (mostly cooking eggs, though she has every other kind of wooden fruit in the universe) and getting into whatever she can. She has become addicted to the same three or four books and has funny ways of DEMANDING you put down the book you are trying to read her and get her the one she wants. For example, making an ugly throat-cleaning sound means she wants you to read Yummy Yucky (I guess the Yucky sound is the throat cleaning), saying "No no!" means she wants to ready Mo Willem's Don't Let the Pigenon Drive the Bus (because you say "No" whenever he asks), and "No mah" means snowman or The Truth About Snowpeople. There are a few others, but I think I've blocked them out. It's funny, but I swear to god if I have to read Yummy Yucky again I may lose my mind, especially because there are so many other great books I want to read with her. She'll tolerate a good dozen, but there are some she won't even let me pull off the shelf.

And, um, can we talk about this face?

Thank you, Internet. Now can I have a nap?

If any good has come from our exciting new lives as parents of a child in a cast, it is that I've made so many new friends (and reconnected with so many old ones) in the last two days. I've gotten lots of calls and emails and a few comments reassuring me there will be no lasting mental scars for any of us and, more importantly, that I'm not alone. Apparently not realizing your child has a broken bone OR realizing it but just not having time to deal with it until after dinner is a part of parenting, and I'm getting very zen about the whole thing. I know feeling guilty is useless, but I feel my heart break a little every time I look at her or imagine breaking a bone and not being able to tell anyone--look, it really hurts. I would so much rather have broken my own bone!

Then, when I've had my maternal moment, I can't help but laugh at the stories I will one day tell about the whole ordeal, including last night when I watched her try to pick up a pretzel with the stubs of fingers that poke out of her cast. It was frustrating, but she wouldn't give up and even grunted a little for good measure. When she finally grabbed hold of it and began to lift it to her mouth (her other hand was occupied with her sippy cup), the 90 degree angle of her cast made it impossible for it to get it to her lips, and instead of readjusting she craned her head left, left, left even more, trying to find a way for finger and lips to meet. It was sad. But also kind of funny.

So thank you all for your kind words and your advice. Now can you do something about our shitty sleeping? We were right in the middle of a pretty smooth transition to her own room, her own bed, and now no one's sleeping well AT ALL. Clementine can't get comfortable, which means she's wide awake and needing lots of comfort. We're committed to the bed and refuse to backslide, which means we aren't just doing what's easiest and hauling her in bed with us. What that means is that one of us is in there with her most of the night (last night it was me and it was ALL night), trying to help her get comfortable and avoiding the giant clunk of cast into our foreheads every time she moves around. Let me tell you, the damn thing isn't smooth--I have scratch marks all over my face, which isn't nearly as bad as the huge bags under my eyes from getting only about two hours of sleep. It's like having a newborn, and I think I can only take another night of it before I try to figure out a new plan. Like sedation. Or soundproofing.

I am still managing to get some pictures, though my camera isn't fixed. I have been dragging home a camera from work that has a broken lens, but it still works with the zoom lens which is why I have such odd close-up perspective on all the shots. It may look like I'm right up in her face, but I'm actually a half a room away calling "Clementine, Clementine!" like a moron. From far away it's hard to see she even HAS a cast:

But she has a great sense of humor about it. She would forget her arm was there at all for a while, but then she'd try to use it only to find it was stuck under the table. Nevertheless, she laughs AND is still very excited to me five:

I can't get the monkey hat off her sometimes. She is obsessed with all things monkey.

Lest you think she's gettin a free ride and all kinds of spoiling just because she's hurt and we feel guilty, she's still doing her chores. Again, it's a tight shot so you really can't see how cute it is, but every night we tell her to "do her laundry" and she scours the hallway, picking up anything in her path and takes it, piece by piece, to the laundry chute to throw it down. It's harder now with one hand, but she's not slacking:

I can't put any of her bath shots with my ingenious saran wrap water shield up here because they all show her parts and I'm a little leery of bath pictures on the internet after hearing some bizarre Flickr stories, but here is one of my favorite new pictures of darling C and her dad. She almost never gets out of the bath happy, but I think now that the cast makes baths so miserable we have more of this to look forward to:

Further adventures in parenting: the hospital edition

That I didn’t title this post “Why I’m the worst mother ever” shows only that I’ve come a long way since crying like a baby when the pediatric orthopedic doctor told me Clementine’s arm was fractured in two places and that he might have to sedate her in order to set it. It’s not that I feel guilty for letting her fall off the couch (OK, I do feel guilty about that, but kids fall, right?). It’s that I SENT HER TO DAY CARE this morning with a fractured arm. After she fell last night and cried a while, she seemed just fine. Well, she seemed like she was in pain at first, but there was no swelling, she was still using the arm and I just didn’t sense in my gut that there was something broken. We read the books, checked the internet, called my sister, but it seemed like it would be crazy to rush her to the emergency room like insane, overprotective parents. Why not give it a night, see how she was doing in the morning and call the pediatrician? Nice gut instincts, huh? I feel terrible and have been replaying every second between her falling off hte couch and finally calling the doctor to see if I really did miss a big sign. The doctors were all very nice in telling me that it's hard to tell with kids, especially if they can't talk and seem as happy as she did. This did not make me feel all that better, but I did talk to another mom whose daughter had fractures for three days before they got an x-ray. It made me feel a little better. But not really.

When I neglectfully dropped darling C. off this morning I asked Julie to keep a close eye on her and she called me within 3 hours to say something wasn’t right. At that point I hadn't seen CLementine awake for three hours since the fall, so that's what I keep telling myself. Julie isn't more caring or more attentive than I. Is she? Her call is how we ended up calling to Dr. and then getting x-rays and then being shuttled to the ER where we got MORE x-rays before they put a cast on her. With hindsight I see thiswhole event is not such a big deal (her life was never in danger), part of being a parent and all that, but it breaks my heart that my tiny, lovely little daughter who is not even 1 ½ years old has a broken bone. I cringe even more when I think that she went almost 24 hours before someone put a cast on it so it would stop hurting her.

Other than a total freak-out both times she was x-rayed and constant crying while the doctor (whom she called “cocktor”) put on the cast, the girl was a trooper. She handled the waiting with a sweet sense of humor, and she charmed all the patients waiting in the ER. The kid went hours without food but was still sweet as a peach. What did I ever do to deserve such a love? We let her eat Mac and Cheese and didn’t force the veggies when we finally made it home for dinner, we read her all the books she wanted and eventually left her asleep (uncomfortably) in her own bed. See? We’re still committed to her own bed. Of course in retrospect all the bitching I did this morning about what a shitty night’s sleep we had last night seems exceptionally cruel when I see now that she was probably calling out to idiot parents that she was IN PAIN, not just that she missed them.

I feel like I’ve been initiated into a new circle of the parenting club—more than half the other people in the ER were parents with kids in various splints, casts, slings and band aids. And we all survived. But know what my sister said to me on the way home? “Oh my god, you’re totally that mother with her kid in the cast.” Hmmm. I guess am. Poor little monkey. Time to break out the summer clothes!

Can it be this easy?

I do not want to be smote by the sleeping gods by bragging, but I can hold it in no longer: Clementine has her own bed and has been sleeping (mostly alone) in it for the past three nights. We have been kicking this around for a little while, and although I think co-sleeping, accidental as it was at first, was a great choice for us for a long time, we had all outgrown it before Christmas. She was waking us up in the middle of the night and we were waking her up when we came to bed, and although I loved being able to hold her close and smell that sweet little head, I think the negatives were outweighing the positives. We went to IKEA some Saturday right before Christmas, and as we were wandering through the labyrinth of fiber-board furniture, we came across a low bed that was so inviting and enticing to Clementine, that she lept up in it, put her head down on the pillow and said “Shhhhhhh,” pretending to go to sleep. Sure, Nate and I hemmed and hawed about whether we could afford it, whether we should find something used or smaller, whether it was the right time, but in the end, how could we argue? We bought it (realizing immediately we had brought the wrong car to the store, meaning I was pinned beneath it the entire ride home and risked beheading), took it home and promptly…did nothing. We had so much to do for Christmas and so little time to do it that we waited until we returned from our epic travels to find a mattress, take down the crib and set up the bed.

But sure enough it did get done. I bought some sock monkey sheets (which are her new obsession since her grandma made her one we call Coco), gathered her stuffed animals to give her some company and braced ourselves for the struggle of our lives. While it hasn’t been a walk in the park, it has been pretty dang easy, with none of the bumps, bruises, marathon crying sessions or other trauma I imagined. It’s true that I did sleep most of the first night in there with her (and “sleep” is a strong term for lying next to her and shushing her while she said “Coco,” “ball” and “vroom” while pointing to the monkeys, bowling balls and cars on her sheets), but the second night was gang busters. Oh, yeah, and last night I was in there again, but it was my fault I stayed so long—I fell asleep. OK, so maybe it doesn’t sound all that great, but I can’t tell you how nice it is to feel like I have my bed and my sleep back. We will have to continue to adjust, and I’m not going to play hardball just yet with the midnight wakings until we’ve given her a little more time to adjust.

I’m pretty proud of this move, but I feel like I can’t quite shout it from the rooftops. It’s a big deal to me, but most other people can’t believe we still had her in our bed anyway. I wanted to tell my dad last night on the phone, but then I remembered my sister telling me that he grumbles about how useless the crib he got us was. I told my friends at work today, but then one accidentally outed me as a cosleeper at the lunch table and my boss, who already thinks I’m an insane doting mother, was visibly horrified and disturbed, citing how dangerous a practice it is. Will the shame never end? I need a meeting to attend—Cosleepers Anonymous, but even that implies that it’s something I want to get over. Sure, it’s done for us now and it’s the right thing at the right time, but I tell you one thing for sure—if we ever have another kid, we’re going to do it the same way. And I’m not just speaking out of my ass here: Nate totally agrees. One of my only mom friends (who has been mystified by my cosleeping) called me last night, and when I said “I have some very exciting news to share with you,” she immediately countered with “Oh my gosh! You’re pregnant.” Heck, lady. I just got my bed back—how do you think something like that would happen so soon?

Knowing me, you are no dount wondering where the heck the pictures of the new bed are. Shouldn't I have taken about a hundred by now, including some fancy night shots of her sleeping soundly in it? The truth is that my camera is BROKEN. And I have to send it in to have it fixed, and it might take a few months and I have to send a check with the camera, which I couldn't do until after Christmas so I didn't accidentally bounce ANOTHER check. Yikes. So I'm going to have to find a way to borrow a camera from school or something because I really feel like I'm missing an arm without my camera. As it happens my awesome school camera is also having trouble and only the zoom lens works. Maybe I can take some very close up shots of the bed. Or maybe I can stand very far away and shoot it. Hmm.

Before I dash off to a very important meeting (voice dripping with sarcasm here), I want to say to my cousin and sister who have included me in a little meme thing that I’m not ignoring you. Seeing as I write a heck of a lot down here on this blog, there’s not a lot people don’t know about me. Especially you, sissy. But here are some things I’m thinking not everyone remembers about me. Or maybe they never knew them. Or maybe they don’t care. Whatever. And I’m not putting “I’m a cosleeper” here because…guess what?...I’m not! Well, not really anyway. I took my cousin's lead (because, even though I hardly know her, we LOVE the same book--I can't stop rereading Special Topics in Calamity Physics) and put a lie in here. See if you can spot it.

1. I am a published poet who has seriously fallen off the wagon. There are very few people in my life these days that remember the time when I was a poet first and everything else second. That makes me sad, especially because I was surrounded by poets and poetry less than five years ago. I fear not being able to get back into poetry and then spending my life regretting it.
2. I feel very comfortable with most of my musical tastes, but I secretly can’t stop listening to or singing “Fergalicious.” Or “Sexy Back.” If you don’t know who sings these songs that you are much hipper than I.
3. I am poised to become a totally amazing snowboarder (even though I’ve never done it before) if we ever get some snow. Seriously, I feel drawn to it and think I’m going to kick some serious ass. I’ve been practicing in my living room.
4. I have always dreamed about living in Texas, a state that celebrates the big and tacky in everything. My business trip there next week is exciting because I have a chance to see some friends but also chill out and imagine moving there.
   
5. I’ve put on quite a bit of weight since I stopped breastfeeding, which is one of the reasons I was able to last so long—I KNEW this would happen and would have gone on pumping forever so I could keep eating ice cream if only it were a little easier.
6. I always paint my toenails blue. When I remember to paint them. Which isn’t so frequent these days.

We have officially survived

Much can be said of what a trial Christmas can be between the shopping and the wrapping and the parties and the obligations and the travel and the headaches. Sure, it's a great holiday, but it's also a hell of a lot of work. This year it happened to be a hell of a lot of fun with a wild child very into the spirit of it all, which is why I've been MIA for a few weeks. I'm now sitting in my living room enjoying the first bit of peace I've had since the 12th of December, and I'm trying as hard as I can to ignore the stacks of presents I have to find a home for, the scraps of wrapping paper my very lonely cat left as reminders of being left behind and the bunch of bills I can't even being to think about how to cover.

I've only managed to deal with pictures from Christmas Eve, since we hit the road after Christmas day for an epic journey across several states, into at least a half dozen houses and with a baby that was alternately the sweetest, most lovable little creature and a small demon sent to terrorize my mortal soul. I think we can say for now that Clementine does not travel well, or at least she doesn't like to sleep in strange beds night after night after spending days with people she doesn't know and not being allowed to stick to any sort of sleep schedule. But those tales will come later. For today, pictures of Chirstmas Eve, when I convinced Nate we should *gasp* try to go to church so Clementine could hear some Christmas carols and maybe even see the nativity play (OK, and maybe I wanted her to be seen in the cutest dress ever). She certainly let us know what she thought of all that by squirming, fussing and crying for the first five minutes of the service so that I spent the remainder of it in the bowels of a very stately church chasing my little devil around. I think it's safe to say that will be our last attempt for a while. We went immediately out for Chinese, where she revived, gorged herself and passed around tons of good cheer:



When we got home, I decided I could wait no longer to open the 7-foot tall box that my mother-in-law had sent. I was nervous it would be some god-awful thing that was important for her to buy, despite our tastes or desires, but we were all very pleasantly surprised to see that she had made the most amazing tee pee, which Clementine fell in love with immediately and now must play in at all times. And, yes, Floyd likes it too...maybe a little too much.



Nate and I killed a bottle of wine while playing Santa. It was more fun than I had imagined to set up the kitchen set we bought her and to arrange presents under the tree, stuff the stocking, etc. Clementine appreciated every effort, and it took us until almost 2 p.m. the next day to open all the carefully wrapped presents. That isn't a sign of wretched excess, just the first hints at what I suppose will be her ultimate rebellion: tidiness. She picked the wrapping paper off a piece at a time and ran back and forth to the garbage can with all the scraps. One present took about 5 minutes, and then of course we had to take it out to play with it.

The excitement I got to see on her face that day was repeated last night when we finally returned home--it was like Christmas all over again as she was reunited with her toys, her tree, her cat, her high chair. She screamed with delight as she ran around and touched everything in the house. And then she was wide awake until after midnight because her schedule is officially fucked, out the window, done. I say it every year and this one is no exception: next year we are totally staying home.